


In The Gaslight

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Age Difference, Anal Sex, First Time, Light Masochism, M/M, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-07
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-17 19:23:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/871115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ed hates military parties. This is no surprise. But when a certain bastard of a colonel takes it into his head to make Ed's night a happier one, well. Ed's not complaining.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Gaslight

**Author's Note:**

> I suppose you could argue this is a little bit AU, because it doesn't fit into either timeline very neatly, but it's not terribly reliant on any specific canon anyway, so I don't think it matters. 
> 
> Thanks to my awesome girlfriend [AmariT](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AmariT) and my new beta [SailorTralfamadore90](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorTralfamadore90) for helping me edit this sucker. It was never supposed to get this long.

Ed hates his bowtie, he hates his cummerbund, and he hates the way his dress shirt is clinging to his lower back from the sweat built up underneath three layers. He wears this many layers regularly, and the feel of sweat is no stranger, but it’s the principle of the thing; at least when he’s decked out in leather and black, it’s his choice. And at least he has a badass image, then, and doesn’t look like some prissy high-roller who takes afternoon tea and discusses asinine things like the latest scandal.

The base of his neck is itchy, too, the skin prickling from his hair pulled too tightly into a sleek ponytail. Al insisted on the change of style, doing it up himself, otherwise Ed would have said fuck it and worn his hair in a haphazard braid, as per usual. Stupid military events, stupid dress code, stupid state official admittance only. If Al could have come, Ed would have forced him into some terrible Aerugan silk loincloth so he wouldn’t be the only one in a fucking penguin suit.

Instead, Al walked him as far as the columned hotel entrance and bid his farewell a little too cheerfully, like his brother’s discomfort gave him genuine glee.

Ed is seriously considering replacing his armor polish with superglue.

So far he’s managed to avoid most conversation, though he got cornered by an already-tipsy Major Armstrong early on. He’s unfortunately already overstayed his welcome at the refreshments table; after inhaling an entire tray of pastries, the head caterer leveled a glare at him that even Teacher would have approved of. As irritated and itching for a fight as he was, Ed would rather walk out of here with minimal bruising.

“Fullmetal. I honestly did not expect you here.”

The voice crawls over his shoulder and prods his ear with just as much sickly charm as its owner. He turns to look before he can stop himself, and promptly curses. He knows only one man with that kind of pompous entitlement, and he shouldn’t have given him even the slightest chance at starting a conversation.

“I have to say,” Colonel Mustang continues, insufferable smirk affixed permanently on his face, “you clean up very nicely.”

“Shut your face, bastard,” Ed mutters. He’s not sure if he wants to punch the Colonel in the nose, or find a table with a cloth to hide beneath for the rest of the night. Maybe he could succeed at both, if he managed a quick enough getaway after slugging his commanding officer.

“I’m sad to hear your demeanor does not follow the example your image presents,” Mustang says then, but changes the subject before Ed can get a complaint in. “I heard you sampled all of the chouquettes. Pity, I haven’t had the chance to savor any decent viennoiseries since my last trip to the South. They were delectable, I imagine?”

“They were fucking incredible, thank you very much,” Ed shoots back. A nearby woman gently swirling champagne in a flute glass shoots him a dirty look. He bites down the impulse to stick out his tongue, and instead gives her a winning smile.

“Perhaps they’ll bring out more in a while,” Mustang continues.

“I’ll just eat them all before you can get to them anyway, out of spite,” Ed says, falling into Mustang’s usual trap. He likes their insulting banter, though he won’t admit it, but he still feels a sense of loss every time he gets suckered into playing along.

Mustang snags a flute of champagne from a passing waiter and smirks against the glass. “It’s almost as if you hate the occasion, Fullmetal. I can’t imagine why.”

Ed scowls, shoving his hands deep into his pockets. “Not everyone is comfortable dressed like some kind of rich airheaded politician.” The Colonel’s smirk deepens and he takes a sip of the champagne, letting it sit on his tongue as he considers his response.

He swallows, then, and offers a conciliatory smile. “Not everyone, no. But sometimes you must play the part in order to garner favor.”

Another waiter passes with a tray of champagne. Ed reaches for a flute, just for something for his hands to hold onto, but the waiter shoots him a look that very clearly says, ‘You are too young, don’t even think about it.’ Mustang barely conceals an amused grin and plucks another himself. He hands the one he sipped out of to Ed, who looks at it with vague distaste.

“It’s alright,” the Colonel says to the waiter. “He’s just turned sixteen, though he looks much younger.”

“Who are you calling so tiny he looks like he’s barely out of diapers?” Ed hisses as the waiter sashays away, dubiously shooting the two of them looks.

“Nobody, I should imagine,” Mustang smirks. He lifts his flute, “Toast?”

“To what?” Ed demands, ignoring the lifted glass for a moment. “The political tension between Amestris and Creta that made this stupid party necessary in the first place? Or maybe you’d rather drink to the hundreds of civilians slaughtered in Ebolas last month?”

Mustang’s smirk falters, falling into a more cynical smile. “Perhaps to the few good men left in this world.”

Ed looks into his glass, watching the bubbles fizz their way to the surface. “I guess I’ll drink to that.”

“May they live long and promote healthy change,” Mustang murmurs. The clink of their glasses tingles its way down Ed’s fingers the same way the champagne bites gently at his tongue.

He feels the awkward silence descending before it does, and that’s almost worse than the hurling of insults. There was something too genuine about that last exchange, and Ed suddenly feels the urge to flee, to find some antisocial corner to grump in alone until he’s stayed long enough to make the military happy.

Thankfully, his savior arrives in the form of a woman in a slinky black dress, walking toward Mustang with purpose.

“Roy!” she calls, too familiar, and Ed relishes the look of frozen panic that briefly shows on Mustang’s face.

“Major General Teague,” Mustang says politely with a stiff smile, accepting her hand to ghost his lips across her knuckles.

Her returning smile is more genuine, with the hint of a flirty past Ed will definitely dig out of the Colonel after she’s left. “I’ve told you time and again, Roy, Ariana is fine.”

“Ariana,” Mustang corrects himself, though he stands with the same rigid formality he began with. “How have you been? It’s been, what, five years?”

“Seven,” she says with a wry smile, leaning into his shoulder, “and it’s still dreadfully boring in East without you.”

“Grumman still give you a hard time?” Ed loves the discomfort radiating from Mustang. The story he doesn’t know here must be _awful._

“Oh, always. I’m surprised one of the girls hasn’t reported him yet.”

“He’s harmless, really,” Mustang says, gently trying to extract himself from her personal space. She doesn’t seem to notice, tiptoeing along with him. Ed does his best to hold in a cackle.

“You know, I don’t think you’d think that anymore after being swatted on the ass for the fiftieth time in a month.” There’s a razor edge to her flirting now, and Ed just loves the direction this is going.

Until she turns and levels her interest on him.

“Is this the Fullmetal Alchemist I keep hearing about?” Her grin is almost predatory. Ed wishes he had made his escape while he had the chance.

“Uh,” he manages eloquently, glancing around for any plausible getaway. Mustang grins just as widely as the Major General. He’s going to murder him.

“You’re a lot… younger than I imagined,” she says after a moment of scrutiny. Ed forces a smile, though really, the nicest thing he could do for the lot of them is transmute her dress into a noose. Maybe then she’d stop petting Mustang’s forearm like it’s some kind of prissy lapdog.

“He’s a genius,” Mustang cuts in before Ed can say something scathing in reply. Ed blinks, suddenly speechless at the casual compliment.

“I’ve heard,” Major General Teague says. “I can only imagine the military must be hard for you at such a young age.”

“I’m perfectly capable, thank you,” Ed shoots back crossly. He feels a little guilty, hating this woman already, but so far she hasn’t done anything to impress him.

“I see. Well, it was nice catching up, but I have others to attend to.” She pinches Mustang’s cheek before she leaves – actually pinches it, like some kind of overbearing grandmother – and then disappears with a gentle click of her heels.

Ed barely manages to wait until she’s out of earshot before letting loose a snort that dissolves into some rather embarrassing laughter. “Oh my god,” he giggles at Mustang’s unamused face, “she pinched your _cheek_ , oh my god. Did you sleep with her? Was that her revenge?”

Mustang squares his jaw and rubs unhappily at his cheek. “I think it was more revenge for the fact I didn’t sleep with her,” he mutters.

“Oh?”

“I may have promised her a candlelight dinner and then not shown up when she expected me to.”

“You ass, do you stand up women often?”

Mustang snorts. “It was a joke promise, first of all. How was I to know she thought it had been genuine?”

“Your sense of humor is as dead as your work ethic, Mustang. It comes off exactly like your flirting.”

“Does it, now?”

Ed pretends to miss the teasing edge in Mustang’s last statement. “Yeah, it’s like you’ve got only two settings: complaints, and horny bastard.”

Mustang laughs at that, a soft throaty chuckle. “If I have two settings, you have one – ornery brat.”

“At least ornery brat doesn’t come off as desperate.”

“I am not desperate, Fullmetal.”

“Sure, right, if your little black book full of women is any indication.”

“I am not arguing this with you,” Mustang huffs. “I doubt you’ve even had the privilege of being kissed yet. You have no grounds to criticize my dating life.”

“Fuck you, Mustang, I’ve been kissed—”

“Your mother doesn’t count.”

Ed stops, mouth open to his next insult, but it closes. He swallows, focuses on his champagne. “Don’t you bring up my mother.”

“I – I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

“Whatever.” He covers his grimace by downing the champagne. The alcohol burns all the way down, bitter as the discomfort that’s rapidly filling in the space between them again.

He’s saved the embarrassment by another of Mustang’s military friends interrupting to make small talk. The next hour passes like the people talking to the Colonel: in bursts, awkwardly, and without warning. Ed takes solace in Mustang’s obvious dislike of the whole socializing thing, deciding it to be an equivalent payment to the uncalled-for remark about Trisha.

Newly forgiven, he rolls his eyes at Mustang when the others aren’t looking. There are a few overly pompous individuals deserving of mocking imitation behind their back; the way Mustang has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep a straight face makes the whole night almost worth it.

Finally, when the rotund Lieutenant Colonel regaling them with pointless stories waddles his way off, Mustang dissolves into a fit of laughter. He bends over, clutching his knees, wheezing, “Your _face_ , and the way you held your _hands,_ I’ve never seen something so perfect _in my life—”_

“Mustang my boy!” Ed says in a deep boom, mimicking the man’s voice now. “Have I told you the one about the tiger? I was just taking a nice bubble bath, minding my own business—”

“Stop, _stop,_ oh god, Edward, I’m going to _die._ ”

“And this tiger just jumps right in with me, like my late wife Eugenia used to do…”

Mustang grabs his shoulder, silent laughter wracking his frame. Encouraged, Ed continues. “And by god, just like my beloved wife, that tiger started yowling until I would scrub its back with my bath poof— _are you crying?”_

Pawing at his face, Mustang thumps Ed on the shoulder a few times, lungs squeaking between silent guffaws.

“You’re actually crying!” Ed laughs, Mustang’s glee infectious. The Colonel catches his left wrist and tugs him toward a balcony, hiccupping now, calming as they reach the fresh night air.

He doesn’t let go of Ed’s wrist immediately, and the skin tingles with the imprint of his hand.

“I don’t think I’ve laughed that hard in ages,” Mustang admits, still chortling. He swipes at his eyes again, boyish grin lighting up his alcohol-pinked face. Ed can’t help but mirror it, leaning against the balcony so he doesn’t feel as awkward standing next to this abruptly fascinating man.

“Better entertainment than the cellist in the corner?” Ed asks, smirking.

“Definitely,” Mustang replies, grin becoming gentle, gaze turning liquid as he meets Ed’s eyes.

Ed’s stomach does a handspring and lands somewhere in the vicinity of his esophagus. He wants to look away, but it’s become somehow incredibly important not to be the first to break eye contact; he doesn’t expect Mustang’s heated gaze to continue this long, though, and even standing outside his clothing feels restrictive and too warm. His shoulders draw up almost on their own, framing his ears like embarrassed bookends, but he still refuses to look away. He will win this game, whatever it is. He has to.

“We’ve been here long enough,” Mustang murmurs, just loud enough Ed can catch it over the tinkling hum of the ballroom inside. “I think nobody will miss us too terribly if we cut and run now.”

“What are you suggesting?” Ed wonders aloud, tensing at the way his voice comes out breathless. Stupid, stupid. Stupid tells, stupid hormones, stupid Colonel.

If he notices, Mustang doesn’t comment. “There’s a quaint little café just around the corner from here. They might still be open.”

“Yeah?”

“They have roast beef sandwiches you’d love.”

Ed’s toes curl in his uncomfortable dress shoes. “You paying?”

Mustang smiles gently, eyelids lowering until his eyes are sultry slits. “Of course.”

Ed pretends his shiver is from the breeze, and pushes himself off the balcony’s edge to stalk back inside. “Well? Don’t just stand there, lead the way.” Ed’s not positive what’s happening, but he’s pretty sure the Colonel just asked him on a date.

Mustang follows, resting a hand on Ed’s lower back for just a moment before continuing ahead of him.

Ed may in fact die tonight. Just keel over dead from a pulmonary embolism.

He thinks he might be okay with that.

Mustang swears the café is close, but one block quickly becomes two, and then three, and Ed starts to think maybe it doesn’t exist at all. He’s about to voice this just as a distant boom of thunder interrupts, and they’re suddenly pelted with freezing rain.

“Shit!” Ed swears, ducking his head instinctively. His bangs already plaster to his face, framing the world with soggy golden strands. Mustang yelps and shrugs out of his coat, holding it over his head in a makeshift umbrella. Ed follows suit, wrapping his jacket over his head, and they stumble together down the street, avoiding rapidly growing puddles.

“I know it’s around here somewhere,” Mustang apologizes, squinting through the downpour. He concentrates so hard on finding the sign that he doesn’t notice the puddle. The water is at least four inches deep, soaking his sock and pant leg immediately. He swears, shakes his foot to rid it of water in a completely pointless gesture; Ed laughs at him, bent over to avoid the rain.

“You’re drunk,” he snorts.

“Probably,” Mustang confides, grinning despite the wet.

He feels giddy, happier than he’s been in a while – until he steps on something, a pebble perhaps, and abruptly finds himself ass-down in the gutter. He squawks, flailing, but there’s no easy way to get up.

Mustang’s laugh is a clear note in the pitter-patter of rain. His hand is cold but firm; Ed grasps it gratefully and yanks himself out of the street. The water has soaked through his pants and boxers, and his tailbone is probably bruised. He feels like his bones absorbed the essence of the chill, becoming ice themselves, brittle and crystalline. He tries to keep his teeth from chattering, but it’s an impossible task; Mustang stops laughing and looks at him closely.

“You’re too wet. We need to get you dry before you go hypothermic,” he concludes, all hints of playfulness gone.

Ed agrees on the diagnosis, but he’s not too cold to be cranky about it. “If you weren’t such a _doofus_ , maybe I wouldn’t have fallen over.”

“But the fall was such a graceful one,” Mustang jokes – and really, it does sound like flirting, Ed wasn’t wrong about that – raising an arm to hail a military car sluicing past.

Thankfully it stops, lets them in with relatively little complaint. Mustang gives directions to his apartment while Ed shivers in the seat, arms wrapped firmly around himself. He lost his tux jacket somewhere between the gutter and the car, but he can’t bring himself to care. His shirt is almost translucent, clinging to his goose-pimpled arms and chest.

He jumps as Mustang pushes his sopping bangs out of his face and tucks them behind an ear. “Goodness, you’re soaked.”

“You don’t look much better,” Ed grits out between his teeth. The Colonel’s shirt is peppered with spots of wet, making him look like a rather poor excuse for a Dalmatian. His tie, no doubt some expensive silk, is ruined.

“The important thing to note is, I’m not a pneumonia risk,” Mustang tuts, tucking the other half of Ed’s bangs out of the way.

At least he can hide his trembling underneath the shivers already clawing at his spine.

“As soon as we get in, I’ll draw a hot bath and see about laundry,” he promises, an earnestness finding its way into his voice that Ed has never heard before.

“You just want… to get me out of my clothes… horny bastard,” Ed manages, teeth clattering.

“As delightful as that sounds, I would never take advantage. You’re practically an icicle.” He kneads at Ed’s flesh hand, encouraging warmth. Ed defiantly stares out the window until they reach Mustang’s apartment, ignoring the gentle pressure.

The trip inside is awkward. Mustang gives his jacket to Ed, who promptly rejects the offer and flings himself out of the car. The sudden return of icy rain against his already frigid skin has him yelping, without any strength to complain or struggle when Mustang scoops him up and jogs to the front door. He’d bitch about it, as Mustang continues to carry him up a staircase and into a cozy apartment, but he’s just so damn cold. It takes enough concentration in preventing his teeth from clacking together so hard they chip, let alone finding the necessary words to tell Mustang exactly what he thinks about being carried like some kind of child.

True to his word, Mustang deposits him in the bathroom, rolling up his sleeves and starting a bath immediately. The steam swirls up and caresses his face. Ed groans appreciatively, closing his eyes as he sinks down and sits with a plop on the tiled floor.

He starts when gentle fingers start to undo his bowtie. He opens his eyes warily, but Mustang is an amicable distance away, businesslike expression on his face as he removes the garment.  Ed watches, tension keeping him immobile. The bowtie is dropped onto the floor with a wet smack and then Mustang’s fingers are back, flicking open the button at his neck and working quickly downward.

“H-Hey now,” Ed stutters. His tongue is clumsy and heavy in his mouth. “I can undress myself.”

“Mm,” Mustang replies, not listening as he reaches around him to unfasten the cummerbund. The wet silk clings to the buckle and he grunts in frustration as he tugs.

Ed’s cheeks are hot, no doubt bright red. The Colonel’s face is too close, arms around him in an awkward farce of an embrace; he’s crouched before Ed, between his knees. Ed’s blood battles between boiling and freezing, uncertain which to settle on. A fever, he thinks, biting his tongue to keep in a gasp as Mustang finally gets the band of silk loose, fingers dragging against his sides as he pulls it free.

Deft fingers tug shirt ends from the waistband of his pants and slide drenched fabric over his shoulders. The only thing between Ed’s thrumming chest and Mustang’s hands is his undershirt. It’s hardly an obstruction, though; the fabric clings to him, caressing the valleys and hills of his abdomen, stretched translucent over the cavern of his belly button.

Mustang’s hand alights at his waistband again. Ed suddenly finds the motivation to shove him away, swearing vaguely in the hopes the other man won’t notice the flutter in his pulse.

“I can do it,” he snaps. Mustang’s eyes cut back to Ed’s face, a hint of surprise in the deep blue. Then it’s gone, back to cool appraisal as he slides gracefully to stand, brushing imagined dust off his knees.

“You like stew, right?” Mustang asks casually, as if he hadn’t just half undressed his subordinate a few seconds ago. Ed nods and scowls until he leaves, closing the door gently behind him.

It takes a few minutes of awkward fumbling to get out of his pants, but his under things are an easier task. His skin pulls taut at the cold, his pores pebbly and rough. His automail ports ache, but the bath is nearly full, so Ed steps in without further delay, sinking to the bottom until his chin is halfway submerged. He sighs, a deep satisfied sound. Glorious, wonderful hot water.

The door opens without warning and Mustang steps inside. Ed shrieks, hunching down to hide himself in the water. Mustang just smirks at him, scoops up the wet clothing and leaves again.

Ed frowns into the water, grateful for the steam hiding him and his embarrassment. He should have locked the door so fucking Mustang couldn’t just come in as he pleased, but that was before he was thinking clearly. Cold always makes him a little sluggish.

He’s not sure how long he takes in the bath, but he waits until the water is on the cool end of lukewarm before he drags himself out of it. A pile of light blue fluffy towels sits in the corner; he takes one for his waist and rubs another on his head. It drops into the puddle he made, and he pads carefully to the door, opening it. Towel clutched around him, he tiptoes into the hallway and toward the smell of beef stew, where he finds Mustang wearing a faded pair of pajama pants and an undershirt, humming out of tune as he stirs the pot on the stove. Ed clears his throat, not sure what to say.

“I didn’t know you could cook,” he manages finally.

“Admittedly not well. This is from a can.”

Mustang turns, eyes flicking briefly to Ed’s bare chest before finding their way back to his face. “You better?”

“Uh, yeah. What did you do with my clothes?”

He turns back to the stove. “They’re in the community wash right now, downstairs. Should be done in an hour or so.”

Ed feels his skin prickle, too aware of his nakedness. “What am I supposed to wear, then?” he snaps.

Mustang gestures vaguely behind him. “If you go to my room, furthest door down the hall, there are sleeping clothes in the armoire, third drawer down. You're welcome to borrow any you think would fit.”

His lip rises in a silent snarl, but he manages to hold it in, turning and stalking down the hallway. The bedroom door is ajar, and he pauses. _It’s fucking weird stepping into another person’s bedroom, isn’t it?_ he thinks to himself, pushing it open.

The floor is clean, marred only by Mustang’s wet dress shoes sitting carelessly on a mat in the corner. Curious, he inspects the walls; they’re mostly bare, with a few framed watercolors. He reaches the bedside table, where a photo sits. He picks it up to look closer: Mustang and Hughes, barely older than he is now, hanging on each other with the kind of hopeful grin only new recruits have, before they see the reality of war. Ed sets the frame back down and swallows past the lump suddenly obstructing his breathing, coughing into his fist to dislodge it.

He focuses his attention on the bed, instead. Enormous, probably king-sized, swathed in a soft charcoal comforter the Ed really wants to rumple, just to mar this odd pristine quality of the room. _Does he even live here?_ He scrutinizes the headboard, only to be disappointed in the lack of tick marks. Letting the towel drop, he throws it onto the plump pillows, not without some rancor. The idea that Mustang will have to put his head on something that has rubbed on his ass leaves him with a heady sense of delight.

The armoire is a simple thing, but tall and made of sleek ebony. He finds the third drawer and opens it, pawing carelessly through it for something even remotely close to his size. After throwing every article of clothing onto the floor, he decides maybe he had better look again. He sighs, glaring at the heap as if it personally affronted him.

Ten minutes later, he tromps out in an over-sized tee declaring ALL THIS AND A BIG DICK (probably a stupid present from a stupid friend, because he can’t see Mustang honestly buying himself the thing), and a pair of flannel bottoms he transmuted to fit. The extra fabric was repurposed as roomy pockets, which he shoves his hands into, glad for somewhere to put them. The flannel rubs against his bare skin, soft and dangerous. He feels dirty and _wrong,_ wearing it with nothing underneath, but Mustang stole his boxer shorts with the rest of the laundry, and he sure as hell isn’t borrowing a pair.

Mustang is already sitting at the kitchen table with a bowl of soup, staring at it like it holds the secrets to the universe. Ed flops into the opposite chair, starting into the stew with gusto; Mustang looks up, startled slightly, then barks a laugh.

“I thought I got rid of that shirt ages ago,” he muses. “Maes got it for me, for my, god, what was it, twenty fifth birthday, I think?” He shakes his head, smile turned wistful and a little sad.

“Clearly you kept it just so it could be worn by someone who actually fits the slogan,” Ed razzes, willing himself not to turn red. He lifts the soup bowl in its entirety and slurps, hiding his face.

Mustang raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Oh?” he says. “That’s a _big role_ to fit, Fullmetal. Are you sure you’re _up_ to fulfilling that claim?”

Ed splutters in his stew. “Who are you saying is so small even his, uh, _you know,_ has a height deficiency?”

“We’re all grown up, here, Edward. You can use grown up words.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Ed mutters, certain his face is pink, if not a brilliant crimson.

“And anyway, I never said your cock had a deficiency. I’m sure it’s a healthy size.” Mustang’s smile is too amused, a wicked curl pulling at the edges.

Definitely red now, if the way he feels like he’s on fire is any indication. He doesn’t even have anything to say to that. How are you supposed to respond to your commanding officer when he’s complimenting you on your dick?

“But as a man of science, I’m afraid I can’t accept your assertion without a measure of proof.” He steeples his fingers over his bowl.

“Did you just. Did you just ask to see my – my penis?” Ed coughs.

“Did I?” Mustang blinks, feigning innocence.

“Don’t act all clueless, you shit. You want to – I don’t even _know_ what you want to do.”

“Have I upset you?” he asks, still so casual and detached, like he hasn’t just taken that last flying leap into territory they’ve been tiptoeing around for ages.

He sputters again, looks down at his empty bowl, then at the wallpaper, then at the window above the sink. The truth of the matter is, Mustang really _hasn’t_ upset him. He’s actually made him curious, in a not-quite-scientific kind of way. More of a super-aware-of-my-current-lack-of-shorts kind of way. An I’m-wearing-his-old-clothing kind of way. A we’re-in-his-apartment-alone kind of way.

“Edward?” Mustang murmurs, finally sounding a fraction of the torment Ed feels. He turns to look at the man again, which is a big mistake. Mustang’s face is earnest, a little apologetic, and absolutely transfixing. Their eyes click, locking together like some form of planet and moon; Ed isn’t sure which one of them is caught in orbit. All he knows is the deep, slow breath Mustang pulls in through his nose, and the way his eyelids relax as he leans across the table and cups Ed’s face in a broad hand.

“Colonel,” he says, like a warning, or maybe an entreaty. Mustang leans forward, brushing their noses together, lips barely grazing Ed’s own – and wouldn’t he be this kind of tease, pretending Ed’s heart isn’t a fragile, trembling bird in his hand. Abruptly, Ed is angry at him, for all this soft banter and softer lips, and crushes his mouth forward against his Colonel’s.

The sound of surprise he gets is _wonderful,_ until Mustang seizes control again, reaching his free hand around the back of Ed’s neck. His fingers wind in Ed’s damp hair and pull him closer, kisses bruising but perfect, with all the fire Ed expects from the Flame Alchemist.

Kissing over the table is awkward. He doesn’t want to stop, but there’s only so long he can stay in a half-standing half-sitting crouch, the table smashed into his gut. So he pulls back, pushes his chair out of his way with a little more force than necessary (it falls over), and stalks around the table. Mustang’s hands find their way into his hair again, accompanied by a sound of pure want. Feeling foolish, Ed clambers into his lap, legs inexpertly splayed across his Colonel’s thighs. It doesn’t seem to bother Mustang that Ed has no experience; he groans again, nipping at his mouth and jawline, hands making their way down his back and oh, that’s his ass Mustang is grabbing, that is definitely his ass and Mustang is pulling him closer by it, cupping in a way that pulls his cheeks apart slightly as he’s dragged forward and he doesn’t think he’s ever been this hard in his _life,_ even when he first discovered what exactly his dick was for and tried not to masturbate for a week out of pure embarrassment.

He’s aware, in some detached sense, that the noise he’s making is incredibly shameful, but Mustang has begun mouthing at his pulse, and is subtly, steadily, grinding his crotch into Ed’s. Nothing else really seems to matter, not with the two points of throbbing pleasure sending a blanket of tight buzzing over his entire sense of being. He concentrates on breathing, feeling somehow detached from life, like he’s swimming in some other plane where there’s nothing but Mustang’s mouth and Mustang’s fingers nimbly finding his waistband and creeping inside—

He whimpers a curse as the older man’s fingers wrap around his cock. Pressure is building low, abs tight and just about _there_ , and then Mustang thumbs his slit roughly and he breaches the wall, spilling out into an endless chasm of white-hot nothingness, wrent from his body completely.

It takes him a moment, but he settles back into his limbs loosely, heart still pounding in his fragile ribcage. His vision swims into focus to catch Mustang tonguing the mess from his hand, pupils blown wide.

“Oh,” Ed murmurs, air punched from his lungs. Mustang regards him again with heavy eyes, flushed pink with arousal.

He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t even look smug, just brushes his wet thumb against Ed’s mouth and says low, voice rough, “I should have asked permission.”

There’s nothing Ed can do in response but laugh, a sound soft as baby feathers as he finds the oxygen in his lungs again. “You idiot,” he says, fondly, pillowing his nose in the crook of Mustang’s neck. The Colonel draws in a deep breath, then lets it out, lazily drawing circles on Ed’s back with a fingertip.

“I’m glad you’re pleased with my handiwork,” he whispers into Ed’s hair, “but I still have a bit of a predicament.” He shifts, rubbing his hardness through two layers of fabric against Ed’s inner thigh. Ed shivers and bites the fleshy part of Mustang’s shoulder. The man’s resulting groan rumbles through them both.

“Fuck,” Ed hisses against his skin.

“Yes,” Mustang replies in a puff of breath. “Yes, I agree.” He shifts Ed again, closer, pressing their chests together, and the ridge of his cock grinds between his cheeks, utterly obscene. Ed swears and bites him again, harder.

“Aah, god, you would be a biter,” Mustang pants, finding the bottom of Ed’s shirt and dancing his fingers beneath the fabric. Ed arches at the touch, hips sliding forward. They both groan, and then Ed is kissing him again, frantic and insistent, grinding back against him with an erection trapped between their stomachs.

“Already?” Mustang grins, drawing a zigzag on Ed’s lower back. Ed whines and attacks his mouth again, arms loose around the Colonel’s neck. To his great disappointment, Mustang pulls away again, looking at him with consideration.

“What?” Ed snaps. He doesn’t like the look, both probing and vaguely sympathetic.

“Mmm. As much as I love the direction this is taking, we don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

Not at all what Ed expected him to say. “What? What part of this seems _uncomfortable_ to you?”

To prove a point, he rolls his hips, holding in a gasp at the rub of flannel against his entrance.

Gentle hands stroke down his sides, then find his face. “Edward,” the man murmurs, “you’re trembling.”

“Maybe because,” he stops, makes himself breathe – when had he stopped breathing? – and continues, “maybe because you’ve stopped kissing me.”

“Or maybe because you’re not ready.”

Ed would hit him and stalk out of the room for that comment, but Mustang is searing heat beneath him and that would just be proving his point. Instead he snarls. “Like fuck I’m not ready,” he says against Mustang’s mouth, teeth bared and ready to bite.

He’s not being taken seriously, not with the way Mustang just raises his eyebrows. The man suddenly grasps his hips and thrusts up, hard, hard enough that Ed’s eyes water and the nerves in his legs go spastic. If he was trembling before, he’s shaking now, mouth slack and eyes wide. He can’t breathe. He can’t breathe but he fights for it, heaving deep unstable breaths, clutching at the front of Mustang’s undershirt.

“If that’s too intense for you,” Mustang murmurs against his cheek, “the rest of it would be too much.”

“Sh-shut the fuck up,” Ed gasps, winding his fingers tighter in the ribbed fabric, “and do that again.”

“Not here,” he replies in a commanding voice, gently freeing himself from Ed’s clawing hands. “Bedroom. We’ll see where we go from there.”

“I would get up,” Ed says, trying not to sound snotty and failing, “but.” A violent tremor wracks his form, and he squeezes his knees together around Roy’s hips.

“Haah, god.” With his head thrown back, tight grin at the ceiling, Ed thinks Mustang might be one of the hottest things in the universe.

Mustang brings his hands around Ed’s thighs and murmurs a warning before he lifts, stands, holding all the weight of them both. Ed gasps and tightens his legs around the man, throws his arms around his neck again, face pressed to the hollow of his neck. He puffs air from its curve, where he feels the tempo of Mustang’s pulse, an allegro beating on a silent drum heard only through the meeting of their skin.

He concentrates on that comfortable connection until the soft expanse of a mattress startles the breath out of him.

“We’re here,” Mustang smirks down at him, arms to either side of his face.

It’s a hell of a time to get shy, but that’s Ed’s life: a series of badly timed fuck-ups on his part, all serving to make his life that much worse. He swallows, feeling too exposed, and struggles to keep eye contact.

“Hi,” he says, softly, like he doesn’t still have his legs wrapped around Mustang’s waist, like the heat of their arousal isn’t pushing into each other insistently.

Mustang kisses him sweetly, lips the barest brush of a smile against his. “Hello.” He props himself up again, regarding Ed carefully. “Has anyone ever told you you’re gorgeous?”

Ed shifts, unable to look at him. “You’re still drunk,” he mutters.

“Maybe so,” Mustang retorts, pressing their foreheads together, “but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

With his eyes closed, the intensity of Mustang’s eyes on him seems less needling, but he can still feel the gentle exhale of his breath, two inches away. The Colonel tips his head back down to kiss him again tenderly, a slow burn much different from the raging fire of before. The shivers curl from the base of his neck downward, settling deep in the curve of his stomach.

“You’re beautiful,” he continues at a reverent murmur. “A vision in gold.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ed says, wanting suddenly to push him away and leave. How dare he say something like that, like it’s not delusional, or a straight-out lie? Does Mustang really think pointless flattery is going to get him any extra points? Ed already has his legs spread for the man (though there’s still the unfortunate pajama pants in the way) – what more does he fucking want?

“Do you know how many men would kill to be in my place?”

“An even zero?” He turns his face away, pressing his cheek against the cool fabric of Mustang’s pillow.

Instead of putting him off, Mustang takes the opportunity to nip at the juncture of his ear and jaw line. “Denial doesn’t suit you,” he breathes into the shell of Ed’s ear, following with another soft nip.

“Nngh. Don’t do that.” Ed doesn’t push him away, though, just presses his flesh hand to the expanse of Mustang’s chest.

“Do you want me to stop?” It’s not a threat, or even a tease; it’s an honest question, which almost makes it worse, because it means there’s a part of the Colonel that actually cares about Ed’s comfort levels.

Ed can’t bring himself to answer, hoping his silence is enough of a ‘no’ for the Colonel without him having to admit it.

The damp towel falls on him, yanking him out of his funk. “What the fuck?” he says through the terry cloth. Mustang laughs. Ed wishes he could see the man’s face.

“Enough with your sourpuss,” he says. Ed can hear the smile in his voice.

He wrestles the towel away just in time to witness Mustang in the process of removing his undershirt. The ribbed fabric blocks his face, but the expanse of muscle is more than enough distracting to make up for it – strong pecs bracketed by wings on his ribcage, taut abs rippling down to his navel, where a trail of black curls starts, teasing a path to his waistband, which rides low, pulled by his obvious erection—

Ed gulps. This is – it’s more than he bargained for. Maybe the bastard is right, maybe he’s not ready for this at all.

The shirt flies somewhere toward the floor and Mustang brings his hands to spread against the comforter, bracketing the span of Ed’s shoulders. His gaze is thoughtful, gentle, not probing or uncomfortable except in how focused it is. Ed holds it stubbornly, breath puffing between his slack lips.

“It’s all up to you how far this goes,” Mustang murmurs, head tilting slightly as he looks down on Ed. “It’s really rather a bad idea already. Fraternization and such.”

“So why did you kiss me, bastard?” Ed whispers, fiddling with the hem of his shirt.

“Alcohol is a great tool for ignoring idiotic laws.” He smiles a little, reaching up to stroke back Ed’s hair. “In the morning I’ll probably fear for my life should Lieutenant Hawkeye find out.”

Something inside him twists, mirroring the fabric beneath his hands. He’d never given himself time to think about it before tonight, the odd attraction-irritation he has for the Colonel, but now it feels like years of stealth fantasies are pouring out. He doesn’t like the implication that this will be just another of Mustang’s dirty secrets. Isn’t this supposed to be more than that? Aren’t _they_ supposed to be more?

The set of his jaw must give him away, because Mustang stops smiling.

“Edward?”

“It’s nothing,” he grunts, not sure where he stands anymore. He wants this, he’ll admit that readily, but it’s complicated. Why does everything with Roy fucking Mustang have to be this complicated?

“It can’t be nothing,” Mustang snorts, “or there would be less lying there awkwardly and more kissing me like you were in the kitchen.”

“I’m not lying here _awkwardly,_ asshole.” He wriggles a little, huffing out a breath in his attempt to appear less frazzled than the tension gripping his spine.

All Mustang does is raise one infuriatingly perfect eyebrow. Before he can stop himself, Ed flings his hands out to the other man’s shoulders and rolls them over, pinning him heavily to the bed. The look of genuine surprise that flickers across Mustang’s face is _so_ worth it, despite the cacophony of his heart against his lungs and the sharp warmth of Mustang’s hips against his inner thighs.

Unfortunately for his internal histrionics, Mustang gets over the shock quickly. Broad hands way too soft for a military officer’s slide their way easily under his shirt, skirting up along the knobs of his spine.

“Nngh,” Ed says eloquently, his hold-pin slackening. Mustang wrestles his shirt off of him before he realizes what’s happening. He watches the washed-out gray material fly through the air toward the floor in a detached sort of way; easier than concentrating on the sudden ripple of goose bumps across his shoulders, or the twisted mess of scars at the edge of his automail.

Mustang leans up to kiss his skin where it meets metal, sending a wracking shiver through him. “Beautiful,” the man mumbles against him, grasping at his hips and kissing a straight line down his chest.

Sitting back against Mustang’s legs and weaving his fingers gently into the man’s hair, Ed lets him. The Colonel nips and soothes at him, thumbs rubbing infuriating circles into the rise of his hipbones, just above the line of his pajama pants. His kissing continues as low as he can before his flexibility gives out – just above Ed’s belly button. He flicks a tongue out, teasing, against the dip, then pulls away, laying back against the pillows with a falsely-coquettish smile. His hands are still on Ed’s hips, searing brands into him.

“Well?” Mustang rumbles. “Do your worst, handsome.”

He feels a bit lightheaded, all the blood in his upper body suddenly sluicing downward in a neon pulse. Thank god the man is looking at his face – the soft fabric of his pants is tacky where it’s stuck to his leaking erection. The little spurts of warmth make it hard to concentrate, Mustang’s hands are so _close._ He hazards a look down at the other man’s crotch and oh shit – the head of his erection has made its way out of his pants, just the top of the ruddy crown and its tiny slit, like some kind of shy schoolboy hiding his face behind an oversized jacket. Ed sucks in a breath and grazes a thumb against it, marveling at the way it twitches beneath him, at the way Mustang _groans_ , thigh muscles jumping underneath him in their attempt to keep still. His thumb pulls away sticky.

“God _damn,_ Fullmetal,” Mustang puffs through clenched teeth, “you tease, _please.”_

He shuffles backward, swallowing a few times to find his voice. “Ah, hm, take off your pants.” It falls dismally short of an order, but apparently that’s enough; Mustang’s adam’s apple bobs as he removes his ardent hands from Ed and tugs at his waistband. Transfixed, Ed stares at the cock as it’s revealed, darkly flushed and pulsing out clear fluid in even bursts. Ed leans onto his knees, ignoring the aborted kicks to get the pants off. His throat is abruptly dry, but his mouth waters, soft palate lifting on its own, as if to make room for something large.

Ed sucks in a hard breath through his nose, tentatively dragging a line down the length of it with his flesh hand. The sound Mustang makes is almost a sob.

“ _Edward,”_ he whispers feverishly.

Ed grasps him gently, exploring the weight like he would a scientific apparatus. It’s heavier than he expected, and soft; softer than he thought a grown man’s penis should be. The scientist in him wonders if this is normal, or if Mustang is just an exception.

He toys with the head, wondering at the lack of foreskin. It seems bare without it, almost silly, like a mushroom. Ed runs a finger under the lip of it, grinning at the choked moan that results.

He wants to run his tongue along it, swallow it as deep as he can – and where the hell did that come from? Ed tries to cling to some form of disgust or aversion but his throat is working and the idea isn’t leaving. He has never given this thought at all, but his jaw is slack, tongue pooling in the bowl of his teeth, the phantom sensation of it against his cheeks, palate, throat; so real he can almost taste it, and he has to swallow, bring his tongue out to wet his chapped lips.

It’s hard to remind himself of how gross this is when Mustang’s cock is right there, gleaming wet in the dim light from his lamp. He slips down between Mustang’s knees, still grasping its base gently, and rubs his lips against it, just to see. Precum smears over his mouth, heady and masculine. He licks his lips again, taking a moment to pursue the taste: slippery-sweet, unexpectedly, but vaguely salty, too, a slight tang that clings to his tongue pleasantly. He lets the head into his mouth and hums a little, his saliva glands bursting almost painfully to accommodate it.

Mustang’s hands slide into his bangs and grip hard, trembling. Ed smirks around the cock in his mouth and pulls off with an experimental suck. A string of spit traces the line between his pursed lips and where they were a breath ago.

A strangled sound followed by pleading nails against his scalp makes him momentarily forget what he was going to say. After a moment, the words resurface, and he murmurs them with lips barely brushing Mustang’s blistering skin.

“Do you like that, bastard?” he teases, pausing to kiss the head he’s only made stickier with his saliva. “D’you like it when your subordinates go down on you?”

“Ahh, god, Edward, please don’t tease,” Mustang groans. His legs are a trembling cage around Ed, knees pressed against his shoulders tightly. Ed stares at him incredulously, but the tortured expression on the man’s face seems to be real; eyebrows pulled together tightly, mouth slack and panting. Eyes piercing and pleading.

If Ed knew this is all it would take to make his commanding officer cede power, he might have gone to his knees _years_ ago.

Turning his focus back on the cock in his hand, he studies it, considering briefly its similarity to street food. He’s never had a problem shoving an entire hot dog into his mouth, and Mustang isn’t so much bigger than all that; it should fit. Taking a deep breath and letting his jaw open loosely, he slides his mouth down onto the erection. His tongue laves the bottom; he decides he likes the feel of it, opens his throat and sucks in more, gagging slightly as it hits his uvula and keeps going.

Mustang whispers platitudes and praises, nails scratching soothing lines into his head again. There’s no snark of back-handed compliments, just honest worship in the timbre of his voice. Ed could kiss him, but his mouth is busy; he breathes carefully through his nose and pets the inside of Mustang’s thigh gently with his automail hand. A swallow, and then he pulls back up, tongue pressed hard to the twitching vein on the underside.

It’s during his third time of taking it all the way down, nose buried in coarse curls at the base, that Mustang chokes out something that really does make him gag. Gag and pull off, mouth a drooling mess, and demand he explain.

“What did you just say?”

“Mnh, ah, sorry—”

“I didn’t ask you to apologize, I asked you what you _said.”_ He sounds angry, hell, maybe even feels angry, but he needs to know if his ears are failing him, or if the man really—

“I love you,” Mustang repeats softly, pulling a hand from Ed’s head to cover his eyes and rub. “And I realize telling you that might be the biggest mistake of the entire night—”

Ed doesn’t let him finish his thought. He growls at the pajama pants as he shucks them off too-slow, but they’re gone, giving him the room to crawl back up over Mustang and straddle him heavily, pressing his ass against the hard sticky mess of the Colonel’s erection.

 _“Fuck me,”_ he hisses, rolling his hips, never more sure of wanting anything. Mustang swears and fumbles to grab his ass, spreading his legs wider and thrusting up against him. Ed chokes back a sob, biting his lip so hard he thinks it might bleed, and grinds back, hands finding purchase against the taut muscles of Mustang’s stomach.  His automail will bruise, he realizes distractedly, but Mustang doesn’t seem to care.

“Condoms,” the man grunts out, “top drawer of my nightstand—”

“Don’t care,” Ed interrupts, finding a steady rhythm of grinding, “unless you’ve got something, but I’m gonna be _really fucking pissed_ if you just let me suck on a diseased cock.”

Mustang groans, but rolls them over, toward the nightstand, and yanks it open. Ed can’t see what he grabs, but he whines when the heat of the man’s chest leaves as he sits up and rips open a small packet. Ed watches somewhat grumpily as the thin latex rolls over Mustang’s perfect cock.

“This is stupid,” he mutters.

“This is important,” Mustang counters crossly. “Never trust someone’s word when it comes to sex.”

“So what, you’re saying you have something?” He doesn’t think so, but the sudden possibility makes him queasy.

“No. I’m saying, many men will lie in order to get what they want.” He leans back over and kisses Ed hard in apology. “God, you taste like me,” he pants as he pulls away, pressing their foreheads together a moment before sitting back up and fiddling with something else.

“Now what?” Ed complains breathlessly, propping himself on his elbows to watch.

Mustang laughs a little, showing him a bottle. “Honestly, Edward, did you really think my cock would fit inside you without a little help?”

Heat prickles his face, but the majority of his circulation pushes downwards. His erection is painfully hard, throbbing in time to his aggressive heartbeat; he’s neglected it for a while, too focused on Mustang, but now it’s a harsh reminder that he really, really wants to come, maybe all over Mustang’s perfect chest, but preferably within the next few minutes. He gulps in air and tries to ease himself back from the edge.

“Sorry if this is cold,” Mustang interrupts, suddenly prodding at him with a sticky finger. His first instinct is to clamp his legs closed, a wave of embarrassment and shame flushing through him, but the Colonel is gentle, rubbing a slow circle around his entrance. Everywhere below his navel is a pleasant tingle, and he relaxes, forces his breathing slow, and tries not to bite his tongue in surprise when the finger presses past the ring of muscle with a slight, inaudible pop.

“Oh,” he says stupidly. “That’s… okay then. Um.”

The finger presses deeper, still massaging circles against his insides. It’s odd, but not unpleasant, just not at all where he expected this evening to end up.

“That is your finger,” he announces. “That is your finger inside my ass.”

Mustang’s mouth is a funny, tight quirk, no doubt trying to hold back laughter. “Yes. Yes it is.”

“This is fucking weird,” he mumbles, squirming. “Just hurry up already.”

And then Mustang does laugh, a bright sound that punctures the awkward feeling sitting in Ed’s chest. “I’ll do my best, dearest.”

“Pet names? Shit, Mustang, already, on the first date?” He giggles nervously at his stupid joke, but then he can’t stop. Mustang loves him and it’s their first not-date, and he has a finger in his ass, and just called him dearest, and they’re both naked and stupid-looking with hard dicks and he can’t stop laughing. His face hurts with the force of his smile and he’s still _laughing,_ a stupid bubbly chortle that’s making his stomach flutter and his cheeks burn.

“Edward?” Mustang asks, voice light and chuckling, “Edward, what—”

“Just put in another finger, oh my god,” he wheezes. Mustang obeys.

The laughter punches out of him, replaced by a low groan at the burning stretch. It hurts, but it’s nowhere near as painful as other things he’s experienced. He focuses on his breathing again, and the sharp prickle of the tight muscles being pulled open. It’s a good hurt, he decides, shifting down to force the fingers deeper. A spike of pain corkscrews down his legs. He gasps, throwing his head back against the pillow, and thrusts down again.

“Ohhh,” he groans, fists at his sides turning loose, palms up. He closes his eyes and feels, the tight stretch, the puffed breath of Mustang’s loving murmurs against his bent knee, the slick oil warming against his hotplate skin.

“Would you like another?” Mustang suggests, twisting the two he currently has inside him. Ed gasps and arches his back, the aborted beginning of a swear trapped heavily in the back of his throat.

“Yes,” he groans, opening his eyes again to watch.  Mustang pours some more oil onto his hand and rubs at his entrance, slow and gentle, with a third finger, thrusting the others and crooking them in spurts. Ed’s toes curl at the deep roll of bliss from the stroking fingers, finding the burn lessening just as the third finally works its way in to join the rest.

“Nnhh, Mustang,” he breathes, rocking into the man’s hand slowly, savoring the burn and pulse from something his fingers are brushing against inside him. “Good, so good.”

“Call me Roy,” Mustang whispers back, kissing his knee as he strokes that spot again, rubbing at it until a haze of velvet creeps up Ed’s spine.

“ _Roy_ ,” he moans for the man, legs spreading wider of their own accord. “Roy, so good.”

“You like that?” Roy says lowly, twisting his fingers again and spreading them apart. The burn returns full-force, with a suddenness that brings tears pricking Ed’s eyes.

“Ohhhh _fuck,”_ he whines, drawing his knees up to his sides to give him more access. “Roy, _please_ , I want you.” One touch on his cock now would set him off, submerged so deeply in this perfect state of pain and rapture.

The fingers slide out and his muscles clench on nothing, just as confused as he is. A low whine pushes from him impatiently as Roy slicks more of the oil on his cock and positions himself.

“Ready?” the man breathes.

Ed tosses him a sweat-slicked glare and hooks his legs over Roy’s shoulders. “Do it,” he urges.

The pull of his muscles is more even, stretching a perfect circle around Roy’s cock as it presses gently forward. Ed breathes out slowly and wills himself to relax and let it in, millimeter by agonizing millimeter.  When the head finally pushes past the ring of muscle they both groan, Roy mouthing at his neck clumsily.

The rest of the length is a pleasure-burn, pulling him further open the deeper Roy gets. The spikes of pain shoot to his toes, carving a muzzy trail out of his bones. Their connection throbs, an arrhythmic beat composed of both their heartbeats.

“Let me know when you’re good,” Roy says against his collarbone. Ed pets his head with his flesh hand, ankles crossing behind Roy’s back in a farce of a hug.

“I’m always good,” he sneers without fire. They’re already dripping with sweat, sticking together where they meet. The comforter is a ball of heated wrinkles plastered to his back. Roy nibbles at his neck, hands tracing out his sides over and over with the fervency and repetition of prayer. As he works his mouth up to Ed’s ear, his hands follow, burying into the still-damp messy hair that fans around him on the pillow.

“I am the luckiest man alive,” he breathes into the shell of Ed’s ear, then follows with a nip. “You’re perfect.”

“We went over this,” Ed starts, but trails off as his earlobe is teased between sharp teeth. “Nngh. Move already, old man.”

He thrusts, pulling out slow and pressing back in just as carefully, but it’s enough to make Ed lose his train of thought. The pace is maddening, a teasing drag on his taut hole feeling pulled to its limit and past, brushing that wall inside him that feels so delicious without enough friction to do much but remind him flirtily it’s there. His cock twitches, reminding him it exists, too, trapped loosely between their lower stomachs.

“M’not gonna break,” Ed pants, moving his hips up to meet Roy’s. The man gets the hint, slick skin slapping against slick skin as he moves faster. Ed’s legs tighten around him, fingers twisting in his hair, fumbling kisses over the man’s forehead until he looks up and Ed can kiss him properly, tongues flicking against each other wet and hot.

He feels like all he can do is hold on, Roy having found his pace, a hard pounding Ed suspects he’ll feel for a week. Ed tries to reciprocate the movement, but his body can’t find its way up, thrashing every direction but the one he wants it to, so he lets himself go slack and just take it, sharing kisses and shuddering gasps between red lips.

Roy tips him backward slightly, the man’s face pressed just above his head in concentration, and the change of angle has Roy’s cock dragging painfully against that thing inside him, massaging him higher and tighter and closer. It hasn’t been long but Ed already desperately wants to come. He whimpers into the strong shoulder offered to him, and Roy speeds up again. The headboard slams against the wall obscenely, mattress squealing; he’s grateful this is happening here, and not in the military dorms, where anyone could hear and _know—_

The brief thought of Roy taking him this hard in his own room is enough to shove him bodily over the ledge. He wails and bites into flesh as his cock spurts between them. Roy yelps roughly but doesn’t stop, thrusting through Ed’s orgasm shallowly, the sudden pulsing clench of Ed’s ass keeping him mostly immobile. He feels so full, and it _hurts,_ that continued drag as he’s milked for all he’s worth; he sobs through his teeth still latched onto bruising muscle, feeling wrung out.

After a moment Roy shivers, hips erratic and voice a low keen. Ed feels the man’s balls crawling where they’re pressed against him, the gentle swell of the cock against his entrance as he comes.

The silence is almost audible, but not unpleasant. They take a moment to breathe, Roy still inside him, neither of them particularly desperate for him to leave. Ed resumes his gentle petting of the man, smoothing his hand over hair and down a slackening back, tension soothing out between his fingers.

Roy breaks into the moment first, sleepily nuzzling into his hair. “I love you,” he murmurs again, pressing a kiss to the sweat-damp tresses.

“Mm,” Ed replies, still at a loss for how to respond. What do you say to a man fourteen years your senior – your commanding officer – who’s in love with you? It should concern him more than it does. Instead, it wraps itself around his ribs and strokes at his sternum, sitting warm and soft there like a small animal. “No wonder I get away with so much shit.”

Roy laughs, a small breathless sound. “It’s hopeless, really.”

“Pretty ridiculous,” he agrees, finding a knot in Roy’s neck and rubbing it loose. Roy hums appreciation and wiggles lower, mouth light against the place metal meets skin on his shoulder. He tenses, but Roy just kisses it gently and relaxes again, breathing in the scent of his sweat.

“Prime example of unfair bias. I’d make a terrible leader.”

“If your skill at fucking has anything to say about it, yeah,” Ed razzes.

Roy props himself up to frown down at him. Their chests pull apart slow and sticky, glued together by Ed’s cum. “Excuse me,” he says with raised eyebrows, “I don’t fuck, I _make love.”_

“Shut up. You are a giant cornball.”

“A giant cornball who just made you come for a good minute,” Roy reminds him, smirking.

Ed flushes. “It was not that long.”

“It was,” Roy insists, finally pulling out and rolling beside him. The condom is tied off and lobbed somewhere in the direction of the trash bin; Ed really hopes Roy didn’t miss.

Broad arms pull him to a sticky chest and Ed balks.

“Gross, you’re covered in stuff, I’m not going to cuddle when you’re like _that_.”

“But you will cuddle, provided I’m clean?” He can _hear_ the fucking smirk, he doesn’t even have to look up.

“Shut up,” he says, but doesn’t deny it. “Where did that towel go?”

As reluctant as he is to move, he’s more reluctant to let the mess dry, so he rolls off the bed onto his feet unsteadily.  The towel had somehow migrated and become friends with Roy’s pajama pants, all the way at the foot of the bed, on the floor. Ed groans and stands, wobbling on muscles of jelly until he can snatch up the towel and throw it at Roy’s stupid smirking face.

Even covered in damp terry cloth, Roy is still smug. “Can you walk alright, Edward? Need a hand?”

“Fuck you, I’m fine,” he snorts, hobbling his way back to his side of the bed. A bruising throb has taken over his abdomen, and that paired with the noodle limbs makes it difficult to stay upright. Thankfully he falls just as he reaches the bed, which he plays off as on purpose.

Roy’s smirk softens into something altogether too gentle. Ed ignores it and grabs the towel back from the bastard, wiping himself down and refusing to look.

“The rain’s let up,” Roy murmurs, reaching out a hand to toy with a strand of Ed’s hair. “You could go home, if you like. I could call a car for you.”

“What time is it?” He still refuses to look over, not sure how he could handle the unadulterated affection he knows he’ll find if he does.

“Quarter to midnight,” Roy says, pointing out the clock on the wall.

“Oh fuck.”

“Hmm?”

“Al. He was supposed to get me when the party ended, he’s gonna be worried if I’m not there—”

A phone in the other room rings, startling Ed enough that he drops the towel. Roy reluctantly lets go of his hair and pads out the room, stark naked and utterly too comfortable in his skin. Embarrassed, Ed works his way carefully after the man, hunched as if it could hide his nakedness.

“Alphonse,” Roy is saying into the receiver when Ed gets there, “What a coincidence, we were just talking about you. He’s here, if you’d like to talk to him,” and then the receiver is being shoved at his face.

Ed takes it carefully, swallowing hard before talking. “Hey, Al.” He congratulates himself on managing to keep a normal tone.

“Brother, what are you doing at the Colonel’s house?” Al’s voice is extra tinny over the phone line, an echo of steel and expanse of wire.

A nervous laugh bubbles over his lips. “Um, it was raining, and we left early, and he offered to wash my clothes.”

A beat of silence, then, “You know we have our own washing machines in the dormitory, Brother.”

Why is his brother so observant? “I know, Al.”

“Are you wearing his clothes?” Al asks suddenly, voice lilting with a tease.

“Not anymore!” Ed snaps. “I mean. Shit.” His cheeks go hot and he scratches the side of his neck. Roy smirks at him, leaned against the wall. Ed sticks out his tongue.

“So if you’re not wearing his clothes, and yours are in the wash… just what _are_ you wearing, Brother?” Ed might actually have to kill him.

“I hate you,” he says.

“May I speak to the Colonel again?” Al asks sweetly. Ed nearly drops the receiver in his haste to get rid of it.

“Hello?” Roy says, reverting back to his serious-Colonel-tone. “Ah. That would be yes.” His eyebrows pull together. “Well… I wouldn’t want to say without first consulting with him… Oh. If you put it that way.” His eyebrows suddenly shoot up into his hairline, and if Ed isn’t mistaken, he’s going pale. “I would never.” He winces as Al says something else, then rushes in apologetically, “Please understand me when I say I will treat your brother with nothing but my utmost respect.” He rubs his face, looking abruptly tired. “Here he is.” He passes the phone back to Ed, who takes it dubiously.

“Yeah?”

“Take your time there, Brother,” Al says a little too cheerfully. Ed looks at Roy again; the man looks vaguely ill.

“What the fuck did you say to him?” he demands.

“Nothing much,” Al says, tone the epitome of innocence. “Just what I expected of him if you two are going to start dating.”

“Al, what the hell!”

“Have a nice evening!” Al chirrups, and then the line goes dead.

“Stupid meddling little brothers,” Ed grits between his teeth, slamming the receiver back in its hook. “Did he threaten your life or something?”

“I’d really rather not repeat what he said,” Roy says, smoothing a nervous hand through his mussed hair.

“Crimeny,” Ed grunts. He takes a step back toward the bedroom and his legs give out, sending him careening into Roy’s chest.

“Hello, handsome,” Roy says in faux-surprise.

“I hate you too,” Ed grumbles. Roy ignores him and plucks him off the floor easily, slinging him over a shoulder on his way back to the bedroom.

“What the fuck!” Ed screeches. “What are you, a caveman?!”

“A gentleman, carrying you so you don’t have to limp all the way to the bed,” Roy smirks, setting him back down bodily when they get there.

Ed continues grumbling, but curls into a comfortable ball and closes his eyes. “Dick.”

A gentle hand ghosts down his back. “You’re welcome to stay the night.”

“That’s the plan,” he grunts into the mussed comforter. “Are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna come cuddle me, you ass?”

“I rather like the second option,” Roy retorts, pressing up behind him as he folds himself onto the bed.

“Don’t think you can be a shithead just because you got in my pants,” Ed yawns. The drape of Roy’s arm over his side is comforting, warm…

Roy whispers something into the back of his head, but he’s asleep before he can discern its meaning.

He wakes to the most god-awful clattering ring. Panic grips his lungs until he realizes the arm around him is Roy’s, the bed he’s in is also Roy’s, and logically, then, the piece of shit alarm clock that woke him up must be Roy’s, too.

“Can you do something about that?” he gripes into arm pillowed under his neck.

Roy mumbles something unintelligible and pulls away to put a hand on the device sleepily. Blessed silence replaces the cacophony. Ed presses a sloppy kiss to Roy’s arm in gratitude and tries to wiggle away so he can take a piss.

“What’re you doing?” Roy whines, still sleep-muzzy as he noses his way into Ed’s hair and holds tighter.

“Do you want me to pee on you? Because in three seconds I will.” Roy lets go of him.

The uncoordinated dance of a groggy morning spent with another person is odd and a little uncomfortable. Ed stays huddled in the warmth of the bed as Roy pulls something on, indiscriminate in his choice this early, so he can go retrieve Ed's forgotten clothing from the night before. Ed hopes it's still there; it'd be hells of awkward to show up at headquarters wearing Roy's pajamas. Not that showing up in the dryer-rumpled party clothes will be much better.

The clock on the wall ticks softly, drawing him out of him thoughts for the moment. The quiet with Roy gone is a blanket of peace, tucking into the clean corners of the room. This is what Roy wakes to, he realizes. This is every morning for the man, pillowed in expensive sheets, the sun casting the first hints of its rays through gauzy window drapes. So different than his own mornings, with the blackout curtains blocking the sun's morning heralds, books and other paper detritus littering the floor and every available surface.

It's nice, Ed decides. He wouldn't mind this.

The thought lightens him past his scratchy headache and the dull throbbing pain of his ass, and he stares at the ceiling and imagines scenarios of a life with Roy until the man comes back into the room with the musty party clothes in hand.

They have just enough time to get dressed and have a cup of coffee before Havoc and the company car pull up out front. If the man has words about the two of them coming out of the Colonel's apartment complex together, he keeps them to himself. His eyebrows still shoot up to be obscured by the fringe over his forehead, though. Ed glowers at him when they make eye contact through the rear-view mirror.

Roy’s morning interactions with the Lieutenant are clipped and professional, and soon they pull away from the curb. The ride to headquarters remains in silence.

Later, after deftly avoiding the rest of the team and making his way back to his room to change, Ed contemplates his options. One, pretend this didn’t happen. He doesn’t like that one. Things were already tense enough with the Colonel before last night, adding another whopper of a circumstance on top of it would make them both miserable. Two, they let it stay in the open, and continued with whatever this was. Relationship? Does it count as a relationship if you’ve kissed and had sex? Or did they just have a one-night stand? Ed won’t accept that; he feels like shit even pondering it.

Three, this stays a secret between them. He likes that even less. The bastard may be good at keeping his hand a secret, but Ed has always kept his heart on his sleeve, cards face-up for anyone to look at.

Ultimately, this has to end in something other than a brush-off and a walk-away. Ed’s going to hold the man by the balls if he has to, but he will not be just another notch in the bedpost (as disappointingly metaphorical as those notches may be). He will be taken seriously.

Pros AND cons of a potential relationship with Roy Mustang: the man is an insufferably cocky bastard.

Mind made up, Ed stalks his way back to the office. His gloved hand hovers just over the doorknob of the room when he hears the low thrum of voices inside, argumentative and quick-flash. Curious, he pauses, pressing his ear to the thick wood of the door.

“Everyone saw you leave last night with him, sir!” Female, and stern; the only person could be Hawkeye.

“Leaving a party is innocent, Lieutenant—”

“ _Everyone.”_

Even in argumentative mode, Roy’s voice sends a thrill down Ed’s spine. “And I suppose they’re all assuming the worst?”

 _The worst,_ like fucking him is some kind of crime. Ed reminds himself it technically was, and that sends an even bigger thrill through him. Underage and subordinate… and Roy wants him so badly he’s willing to break the law for it.

“What do you think?”

“I think my personal business ought to stay my personal business.”

Just an exasperated sigh, but Ed knows Hawkeye well enough to imagine the look of utter frustration that must accompany it. “Unfortunately we both know that’s impossible. Can I trust you to wait until we see what kind of backlash this causes before you go out and make things worse?”

Ed’s ear strains through the silence. He holds his breath and wills his heart to beat quieter; he needs just as badly as Hawkeye does to know Roy’s answer.

“I don’t know,” comes the answer finally, a soft admission Ed might not have caught if he hadn’t been listening so intently. “He makes me forget myself sometimes. You know that.”

And suddenly it’s all too serious and Ed is more than ready to make his entrance.

Which he does with all the usual bravado and lack of concern for the door or the wall next to it.

“Got anything new for me today, Colonel?” he sneers, hands propped on his leather-clad hips belligerently. Roy startles, eyes flicking to Ed’s lower half before they find his face.

“Good morning, Fullmetal.” He manages to sound cool and collected, even despite the sudden interruption.

Ed is surprised to note that Havoc and Fuery are both present as well, which means they were privy to the conversation. He hopes it didn’t touch on more personal subjects before he started eavesdropping; he’s not really sure what he’d do if he knew the whole team was in on this relationship thing.

With the way they’re whispering to each other behind hands, like children, they probably at least very heavily suspect something happened. Fuck.

“Well?” he presses. Roy sighs.

“I may have something, if you’ll give me just a moment to look through my inbox. But we all know you have such _little_ patience.”

“WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO LITTLE AND INEXPERIENCED IT TOOK LIKE THIRTY MINUTES OF PREP BEFORE YOU COULD EVEN—” Ed cuts himself off, holding both his hands heavily over his mouth. Fuck, fuck, _FUCK,_ that had just come out of him. He’s dead. He’s a dead man. Why did he say that? Why the fuck did he _say_ that?

Ed feels like his face is boiling. Even Roy’s face is tinged with red, mouth slack and eyes wide. His usual smarmy poker face is gone, kind of like Ed’s control of his mouth.

Instead of doing the mature thing and laughing it off, he flees.

“E-Edward!” Roy yelps after him, but he’s out the door like a shot. He’s not waiting around to see Hawkeye’s disapproving glare, or hear the stupid gossipy titters from Havoc and Fuery.

He runs until there’s no more hallway, boots squealing as he skids around the corner. He manages to get outside, just barely, when the tail of his coat is snatched by agile hands and Roy’s terrible and perfect voice orders behind him to _stop._

Ed finds himself following it, though right now the only thing he wants is to dig himself a hole to crawl in and die. He hasn’t gotten around to writing a will and testament yet, but he figures Roy will do what it takes to see that all his stuff goes to Al.

“I’m sorry,” Roy says to his back.

“For what?” He doesn’t turn around.

“It was a mistake.”

His heart shudders in his chest for a moment, blood turned freon.

“You told me you loved me,” he says low, dangerous, “was that a mistake too?”

Roy’s hand finds his shoulder. “Edward, no—”

Ed jerks out of his grasp and spins to snarl at him. “I’m done with your shit, Mustang. I thought I could trust you, but apparently fucking not!”

He doesn’t wait for a response, flying the rest of the way down the stairs and onto the courtyard. The cobblestones press at his feet, coal-tinged wind whipping at his coat. Hot tracks run down his face but they’re equal parts upset and angry.

“Edward!”

The fucking bastard is still chasing after him. Who the fuck does he think he is? Ed thought he wanted to be with him – what a joke, what an utterly shit joke. Why did he think he’d be any different to the man?

He’s vaguely aware of people staring at him, past the rippling blur of tears he’s stubbornly refusing to let fall. Some of them escape anyway, burning down his cheek. He swipes at them and keeps running.

“Edward, I didn’t mean… Loving you was never the mistake!”

Everything inside him hurts, tense and ugly as it wars with his need to run, but he slows, and then stops, and turns. “What?”

Mustang catches up, breathing hard. “I do love you,” he pants. “That wasn’t what I meant.”

They have an audience, officers halted in their errands and staring unapologetically at the two of them. Edward crosses his arms, holding his intestines in tight. “So?”

Mustang looks at him, open, pleading, and too genuine for Ed to feel comfortable having this conversation in public. Apparently the Colonel feels the same, because his voice is a low murmur meant only for Ed. “I… that was your first kiss, Edward, I shouldn’t have taken that _and_ your virginity in the same night.”

Ed snorts. “What the fuck _ever_.”

“I mean it. I feel like a dirty old man. That’s not how it was meant to go.”

“Maybe that’s because you are a dirty old man.” His squabbling insides are settling, finding peace with each other that blooms warmth. “And it was my decision too, asshole. I wouldn’t’ve let you fuck me if I didn’t want it.”

Mustang smiles a little, a wry curl that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I just want what’s best for you, and I’m not convinced that’s me at the moment.”

“You shit!” Ed exclaims. “I get to decide what’s best for me, not you, and if I want to be with your dumb ass that’s _my decision!_ Stop treating me like a fucking child!”

Mustang’s farce of a smile dissolves into something more real, and his eyes close for a moment. “So this is a relationship, then?” His gaze flicks back down to Ed, warm and fond. “I was under the impression you’d decide I was a monster and book it in the opposite direction.”

Ed uncrosses his arms and shoves at the man roughly. “You know, everyone thinks you’re smart and shit, but you’re a pretty big idiot under all that intelligence.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment, jackass.”

“Coming from you, it might as well have been.”

The trip back inside is happier, though Ed can feel what seems like a million eyes on their backs as they walk shoulder to shoulder across the courtyard and up the steps. He hopes all this doesn’t cause problems for the man. There’s a selfish knot inside him that is smug it took Roy yelling his affection across a public yard, but a greater part of him, the guilty part, sits heavily against his ribcage.

Roy’s fingers curl toward Ed’s, surprising him out of his thoughts. He can’t rationalize why the man would want to hold his hand in headquarters of all places, but he doesn’t push him away. Fingers entwined like affectionate children, they draw looks from the others in the hallway, but nothing too negative. A few officers even smile at the two of them, making Ed light up with an irritated blush.

There’s no fanfare as Roy opens the door to the office.

“After you, Fullmetal,” he rumbles, and as Ed shuffles past the doorframe, he receives a healthy swat to the ass. He squawks and scuttles in faster, muttering insults and swears, but a fantastic hum rises up in his bones.

He’s not really sure what he got himself into, but the prospects are exciting.

Now, to get Roy back for smacking his butt… Ed thinks he knows just the thing.

The man’s not _too_ attached to his desk, is he?


End file.
